


Desert Rose

by mific



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Historical, Characters Reading Fanfic, Community: sgareversebang, M/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-26
Updated: 2011-06-26
Packaged: 2017-10-20 18:12:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/pseuds/mific
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, a downed Hurricane pilot in WWII, is rescued by Rodney who's tracking strange energy readings in the Sahara. And in another life, their story makes another John and Rodney unwilling Atlantis celebrities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desert Rose

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [sga_reversebang 2011](http://sgareversebang.dreamwidth.org/39773.html#cutid1), for the wonderful artwork [Desert Rose.](http://sgareversebang.dreamwidth.org/23291.html) by [mella68](http://mella68.livejournal.com/). It's set a couple of weeks after _Critical Mass_. It's kind of an AU crossover with the SG1-verse (although not so much the characters), in places. Huge thanks to [busaikko](http://busaikko.dreamwidth.org/) for a super-fast beta at the very last moment, which was tremendously helpful.
> 
> I haven't ticked the AO3 warnings, as none quite apply. There is some violence, but it's not a major feature and is no worse than any on SG1 or SG:A. A secondary character dies who also died in canon, in John's past.

 

"Goddam, Holland, where the hell _are_ you?" John Sheppard peered through the Hurricane's scratched windshield: nothing but endless identical dunes, with sometimes rocks or a dry wadi.

Sweat dripped down the back of his neck and under the collar of his flightsuit. The leather jacket was way too hot but he needed it when flying at altitude. Now, skimming the desert floor and searching for a downed fellow pilot, he was broiling.

Visibility was terrible. The sky had an odd bronze tinge to it, almost mustard colored where it merged with the horizon. He had to keep checking his instruments; it was hard to stay oriented visually even though he was flying pretty low. _Too low to be safe_ he warned himself, but he had to take the risk or he'd never see the other plane.

The ground crew at the RAF base outside Cairo hadn't wanted him to go after Holland. Yusuf had shouted about the _rih al khamsin_ , the fifty-day wind, waving his hands in John's face until John shouldered him aside and clambered up, pulling the hood shut and firing the ignition.

He'd heard of the _khamsin_ wind. It happened every spring they said, and around now, early April, was the usual time. John had flown in storms before so he'd been prepared to risk it, but he didn't like the look of that color on the horizon, and the bank of dirty bronze out in the western sky across the Sahara looked bigger than it had a few minutes ago. He had to find Holland though, even if he wasn't--

John censored that train of thought. Holland was a damn fine pilot; he'd have brought his bird down somehow. Hurricanes were easy to fly and they were light, with the old-fashioned cloth and wood-framed bodywork that German shells just tore through without exploding. So maybe Holland would be a little banged up, but hey, there was a war on; that came with the territory.

Not that there was any fighting right around here, this close to Cairo in April 1943. He and Holland and several other pilots had been seconded to the British forces in Cairo as air support, on loan from the USAAF to help with the North African clean-up. Monty had thrashed Rommel and the Afrika Korps was fighting desperately in Tunisia now, beaten back out of Egypt after the El Alamein battles. The fighting had been brutal, from tales John and his buddies heard over beers in the officer's mess. The Brits liked to lord it over them, teasing them for coming too late, calling them "tail-end Charlies". John just shrugged and ignored it. He'd pissed off one too many commanding officers by disobeying orders, so here he was, nowhere near the real action in Tunisia and Algeria, flying scouting missions in beat-up old Hurricanes out in the goddam desert with a bunch of RAF jackasses whose mustaches were bigger than their--

Damn! The wind had gusted up and blown him right off course. He fought to pull his plane back on track again, not that he had a course as such, just a rough grid pattern covering the area where he figured Holland's bird was most likely to have gone down. The ominous mustard-colored bank to the west had expanded and looked more like a wall now. Not good.

The radio was useless, nothing but static. John struggled to hold the Hurricane steady and _there, over there!_ Just on the edge of a dune in the cleft of a wadi, a flash of something metallic. He hauled his plane back around for a second look, then the plane was buffeted by stronger gusts of wind and the sky, Jesus, the sky was dark orange and -- fuck -- it was a goddam _sandstorm_.

The storm fell on him like a hammer: no visibility at all, sand and dust in his eyes and mouth despite the scarf he'd learned to wear across his mouth and nose for desert flying. The plane rolled and dipped, both props struggling. She was going down, altimeter falling. He fought to control the descent as best he could, blinking grit out of his eyes and battling to hold the joystick steady. A brief rift in the swirling dust clouds and he glimpsed smoke boiling out of the starboard engine. God fucking damn it.

The ground rushed up frighteningly fast. He lifted her nose to cut the speed and sliced across the crest of a dune, skimming across a few more like a pebble on a pond until she came to rest nose deep with a violent jolt. His harness held, straps biting deep. He'd have bruises for sure, but the old leather jacket would have taken the worst.

He slumped there, stunned and cursing, white-knuckled hands still gripping the joystick. Forcing himself to let it go, he pulled his scarf up across his whole face as the storm whined around him, obliterating the windshield. He must have passed out there for a while, coming to with pain lancing straight up the back of his neck to join the thudding in his head. His mouth was full of dust, and he panicked until he remembered the scarf on his face and clawed it down.

At least the wind had died down, even if he couldn't see past the sand and dust heaped on the hood. He found the small canvas flight-pack and checked its contents. Compass, canteen, some emergency rations. Not enough water, but it would have to do. Surely they'd come looking for him when he didn't return? _No one went out to find Holland,_ he thought bitterly, _just me. Leave no man behind, my ass._ The others were scared of the _khamsin_ , and he'd taken off without any authorization. John tried not to think about it. Holland, he had to find Holland; that was the plan.

He put his shoulder to the hood, which was jammed. It broke free, showering him with sand, and he pushed it up with difficulty and crawled out. He let it fall shut and climbed out onto the half-buried wing. The engines were a wreck, both props shattered. Sand everywhere: his old girl wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. He peered out across the Sahara, looking for the marks of his skipping crash-landing. There: a line of deep gouges leading back across the dunes. John checked his compass, trying to estimate where the wadi with that momentary flash of metal had been. It ran north to east he thought, so if he headed nor-east he should run slap bang into it. Then he could follow it back and find Holland.

He slid down off the fuselage which was belly-deep in the dune. As he picked up the pack he saw her name, painted in English and Arabic beside her designation code. The _Desert Rose_ , his favorite in their battered old fleet. "Bye, girl, sorry," he said, patting her once more for luck before leaving this last familiar thing and setting off into the unknown.

Three hours later when he'd almost lost hope, John stumbled on the wadi. He damn near stumbled into it and fell twenty feet. _Way to go, Shep,_ he berated himself, _break a leg in the middle of nowhere: real smart_. He found a way down and then took a left, heading nor-west. At least there was a little shade in the lee of the cliff wall. He stumbled on, desperately tired, his bruised ribs aching. Another hour following the wadi's twists and turns and he was dead on his feet. He paused, slumped against the wall, sipping a bare mouthful from his canteen. Whenever the wadi twisted and he rounded a corner he felt a thrill of hope, swiftly dashed. Holland's bird had to be in here somewhere, but could he have turned the wrong way? And that brief flash of metal -- what if it was junk, just a piece of trash? Surely there was no trash in the desert, though? He sighed and pressed on, weary to his bones.

John didn't recognise the plane when he rounded the next turn; there wasn't enough of it left to recognise. Fragments of fuselage and wing littered the clay-pan. A broken-off prop lay just yards from his feet, snapped in two. John stumbled forward to the largest mound of wreckage at the base of the cliff. Maybe Holland had been thrown out? At least there was no sign of fire.

He _had_ been thrown out. John found Holland near the wadi wall, neck at an impossible angle, eyes open and staring. John tried to straighten Holland's neck but he was stiff with rigor mortis; it came on fast in the heat. He tried to shut Holland's eyes but the lids wouldn't close. Finally, he found the remnants of Holland's scarf and covered his face, then crawled away to slump against the wadi wall. John shut his eyes: Christ, what a fucking mess.

He came to as the shadows were lengthening. There was a faint sweetish smell of corruption: Holland's corpse. Were there jackals out here? Maybe not -- John had heard they scavenged closer to the villages. Not much John could do; he had nothing to dig with and the plane was in fragments. He piled what debris he could on top of Holland's body, retrieved his pack and searched for Holland's canteen, finally locating it hooked up on a rocky outcrop. It was half-full, so he took it.

What now? He was miles from any village and had only the vaguest idea where one might be, anyway. Dusk was falling and it was going to get cold. Not much he could do about any of that: there were no trees or brush here to make a fire.

The night did get cold, and John lay there, teeth chattering, curled in on himself. At least he had the jacket. His head ached and his neck was stiff, his ribs were bruised and his feet already blistered. He wondered how long he'd be able to walk with hardly any food or water. A day? Two? John pulled his head further into the sheepskin collar and tried not to think.

.........

He lasted two days before collapsing. One more freezing night, burrowed into a dune, and two hellish days. Trudging, then stumbling, then crawling across the dunes, sand sliding away under his boots. He fell several times on the second day, once tumbling all the way back down the dune face he'd been scaling. His face and hands were blistered, his mouth beyond dry. The thirst was a living thing, choking him, coiled around his throat. His lips were swollen and cracked and he felt dry as tissue paper.

The leather jacket was gone, long since shucked off in the relentless heat. The pack was gone, too. John had lost count of the days, of the nights, lost track of where he was going and why. He dragged himself on, seeing shimmering mirages, and Holland. He'd talked to Holland at first, but his throat was too dry now, too swollen. He crested the dune but the edge gave way and he rolled down the other side, helpless.

He landed face first at the base of the dune. The sun weighed on him like a giant, burning hand and he stayed down this time, falling into delirium while shadows stretched out and enveloped him.

 

======o0o======

 

"What the fuck _is_ this shit?" Rodney charged into John's room, waving a sheaf of paper.

"Why hello there, McKay, thanks for knocking." Fucking Rodney; he never damn well knocked.

"Have you seen this, this--" Rodney spluttered, gesticulating. A page dropped off and John grabbed it, smoothing out the creases. "I confiscated it from Cadman and her girlfriends. They were having a fine old giggle-fest. She said it's all over the intranet!"

John frowned at the crumpled page. There were only two lines on it, up at the top.

> "He landed face first at the base of the dune. The sun weighed on him like a giant, burning hand and he stayed down this time, falling into delirium while shadows stretched out and enveloped him."

"What is it?" He made a gimme gesture at Rodney. "Let me see. Seems to be about someone dying in the desert." John had a brief flash of the chopper, Afghanistan. He shook his head, wiping it away. "And why are _you_ so worked up, anyway?"

"Oh, like you won't be totally freaked, Colonel Cucumber. Wait, which bit have you got there? No, no, that's just the end. Here, look at this and then tell me you're still Joe Cool." Rodney thrust the pages into his hand.

John read them, brows drawing up, his face darkening. He scowled up at Rodney. “Huh? It’s the forties, World War II. What the fuck?”

"I don't _know!_ " Rodney put his hands on his hips. "And quit glaring at me; it's not like _I_ wrote this crap, despite Cadman's slanderous digs. I have no idea who wrote it but yeah, it's some sort of World War II adventure, based on you. You being such a big goddam hero and all, Colonel. Clearly it was only a matter of time before your lunatic fans completely lost it and started writing fanfic."

"Fanfic?" John squinted at Rodney, annoyed.

"Oh for Christ's...look, fanfic's...um, well it's stories written by fans, about a character, or a whole show, or a movie, books, whatever. Or sometimes about a real-life celebrity." John raised his eyebrows almost to his hairline, which was a lot easier for him to do than Rodney, ha. "What? Don't give me the eyebrows of doom. I had a girlfriend in grad school who was into it. She was a Trekkie; she wrote torrid epics about Kirk and Spock and their everlasting love."

John's mouth fell open. "Kirk and Spock? But they're--"

"Both guys, yes. Well spotted, Colonel, it’s called slash fanfiction -- you know, Kirk-slash-Spock. And it's true that the early Trek was very campy: all those badly-choreographed fight scenes and tight-fitting uniforms. I can kind of see where she was coming from."

John gaped. "Kirk and Spock?" Spock was his idol -- no talking about feelings, and green blood! Green blood never got old. Rodney called him "Kirk" but it was Spock that John really admired.

Rodney snapped his fingers in front of John's face. "C'mon Colonel, stop the Kirk-like mooning over your Vulcan crush. This is serious. We can't have some scientist or marine writing fanfiction about you. And how clichéd is _that_ , huh? Trust them to pick the obvious hero to fixate on. If they weren't utter morons they'd appreciate my finer qualities and how many times I've saved the _entire city_. There should be a whole _novel_ about me, by rights." He paced up and down, waving his hands. "It's probably one of the fucking anthropologists, or a linguist. Yes, I bet it's a linguist -- or a historian, some soft sciences cretin for sure. I'm going to rip the damn network apart until I find them!" He swept a heap of clothes off a chair and hunkered down at John's laptop, typing furiously.

"But, Spock!" John muttered mutinously. Spock wouldn't fall for anyone as shallow as Kirk. He'd go for Bones, maybe, or Scottie. John picked up the pages again. It was flattering in a way, but the more he read it, the more creeped-out he got. How did the writer know about Holland crashing in the desert or that John had tried, and failed, to save him? Or even that John went by "Shep" back then? Had someone hacked his personnel file? The Shep detail wouldn't be in there, though.

He eyed Rodney suspiciously. "How did they know all this stuff about me?"

Rodney didn't spare him a glance, hands dancing across the keyboard as he called up various sysadmin screens. "What stuff?" he asked absently.

"In the fic. There're details in it no one here knows, unless they hacked my file. Or Elizabeth might know -- I guess she reads all our files."

"Carson might have access, for medical purposes." Rodney's rapid pecking didn't falter.

John snorted. "Yeah, no. I can't see Carson being behind this, can you?"

Rodney paused, considering. "No, you're right." He turned and stared at John, wide-eyed. "What, you think it's Elizabeth? That she's got a secret crush on you? She _is_ a linguist, after all. Wow!"

"Jesus, Rodney, calm down. No, I'm sure it's not Elizabeth, she'd never be that irresponsible. Which brings us back to 'someone capable of hacking my file'." He stared at Rodney meaningfully.

"Give it a rest, Colonel Paranoid. I told you, it's _not_ me. Why would I come charging in here all worked up about it if it was _me_? Oh, don't narrow your eyes at me, you know I'm crap at lying so it's not a double-bluff." Rodney rolled his eyes and turned back to the keyboard.

True enough. McKay couldn't pull off a ploy like that if his life depended on it; no way was he behind this. Damn. John keyed his radio: "Elizabeth, we've got a situation."

.........

Elizabeth looked up from the dog-eared pages and frowned at John. "I see what you mean. It's fiction, but there are aspects from your past--" She broke off and glanced over at Rodney who was on the other side of the conference room table, working on the laptop. "And we have no idea who wrote it and put it on the intranet? Rodney, can't you track it?"

Rodney slammed the laptop's lid closed, snarling. "Well you'd think so, wouldn't you, what with me being a big goddam genius and sysadmin to boot. In fact, that's the most frightening aspect of this whole stupid prank. I _should_ be able to track it and locate the culprit, but I can't. The code's impenetrable and I keep hitting encryption at levels I've never encountered. So not only do we have a nut job fan lifting the lid off Sheppard's Pandora's box of a life, we've lost control of the intranet. Consider us compromised, Elizabeth."

John glowered at Rodney. _What_ fucking Pandora's box?

Elizabeth paled but her voice was firm. "Who else could help you run a diagnostic on the system, Rodney?"

"No one's going to find anything if _I_ couldn't!" She raised one eyebrow and he subsided. "Well, maybe Miko? She's our best coder."

Elizabeth nodded. "Enlist her." She held up a hand, forestalling Rodney's protest. "Two heads are better than one, Rodney. She might see something you've missed: we have to be sure."

Rodney stuck his chin out, mouth twisting unhappily.

Elizabeth turned to John. “I don’t want to rush into assuming this is an emergency unless we see more evidence of malign intent by the perpetrator. So far, he or she has written a work of fiction incorporating a few details of your life. That’s...unusual, and a gross invasion of privacy, but it’s not necessarily a serious risk to the city or the expedition unless Rodney’s team does find evidence of hacking. Until we have that information, I’ll put out a message that it’s entirely inappropriate and needs to cease forthwith. Hopefully that will be the last we’ll hear.”

John clenched his jaw. Yeah, right.

 

======o0o======

 

Jolting, and dust and a thick, cloying animal-smell. His head hurt; everything hurt. John went away again.

Voices were murmuring but he couldn't understand them. Cloth was pushed back off his mouth, and there was wetness and warm, sweet liquid. It hurt to swallow, his throat somehow both dry and swollen. Water, god, _water_ , and he swallowed and swallowed and clutched at the hands restraining him, trying to get more as they made soothing noises and kept it from him.

He drifted in and out. Sometimes they were moving, jolting along to the sound of clinking harnesses. Sometimes they stopped and gave him the wonderful water, a little more each time. It was warm, and tasted faintly like the animals smelled, and it was the best thing in the world.

Finally, darkness and torches and high-pitched voices calling out, excited. Arabic, he realised -- they were speaking Arabic. He was slumped in a saddle, tied onto the rider in front and they pulled off the ropes and got him down, handing him from one to the next and then carrying him inside. The bed was soft, and he ached all over so it was as good a place as any to pass out. Just before he faded he heard a voice, cutting through the liquid bubbling of Arabic.

"Ali? What the--"

.........

"Sorry, _shit,_ I'm sorry. It was stuck on and I have to get you cleaned up or you'll get infected and I can't treat that, not out here."

John flailed, batting weakly at the hands dabbing at his face as the scarf was pulled back. It stung, and the lamp was too bright in his eyes. He closed them and tried to protest but all that came out was a croak.

"Here, have this." He was helped to sit up and a cup was tilted to his painful, cracked lips. Warmth and mint and honey -- some sort of tea. It soothed his throat and made him aware that he was hungry. "Wait, wait, Jesus, don't take my damn finger off," said the voice, tetchy but soothing and American, thank Christ, no German accent. Then there was sweetness -- mashed dates -- and some bread soaked in tea, and more water. "Enough, you'll be sick," said the man, and John fought off the muzziness and opened his eyes.

"Too bright," he rasped, squinting in the lamplight.

"It's just a Tilley lamp. Oh all right then, I'll put it over there. I had to see properly to clean you up. Where's that salve?" The voice came and went, there was scuffling, then a cool, soothing smear on the sunburned skin of his face. "You're a complete idiot and lucky to be alive at all. Trekking across the Sahara: bad idea. Unless you're Bedouin like Ali or Nasir. Which you're patently not: you're a pilot. Not RAF, which is interesting. What are you doing out here, I wonder?" The voice muttered on, asking questions and answering them; it was oddly soporific. John's hands were taken and smeared with cream. He closed one around the man's wrist, stilling him momentarily.

"Who?" His voice was ruined. "Your...name..."

"Lieu...Dr...that is, Rodney. Call me Rodney."

"Dr...Rodney?" John opened his eyes; it was darker now, the lamp further away. “You’re a...medic?”

"Just Rodney, for Christ's sake, and I am in no way a practitioner of anything as inexact as medicine!" The tone was waspish. "I've got two PhDs, _two_ , both in _real_ sciences, but my rank's just lieutenant, which is ridiculous so let's not go there. You make one damn mistake and they send you off into the wasteland!"

"S'okay, sorry...Rodney." John put his hand on the man's sleeve. He was wearing some sort of white burnoose, with the hood pushed back and a dark robe under it. "Shep."

"Yes, yes, your dog tags. Captain John Sheppard, USAAF. Er, hello."

John managed a ghost of a grin. "Hi."

Rodney eased him back against the padded mats and cushions. "Sleep. It's okay now, you're safe, you'll be..." John let his eyes fall shut. As he slid away, a hand brushed lightly through his hair.

 

======o0o======

 

“So the stern warning worked brilliantly, then!” Rodney was too agitated to sit in one of the chairs across from Elizabeth. He paced up and down, punching the air. Behind him, John leaned hipshot against the wall of Elizabeth’s office, arms crossed, fake nonchalance belied by the tension in every line of his body. “Not that I’m surprised that they’ve brought in a character who’s clearly intended as a tribute to me, but it’s the principle! Colonel Sheppard and I shouldn’t have to put up with some insane woman--”

“Rodney,” Elizabeth said warningly. “We can’t assume the writer is female.”

“Most fanfiction’s written by women, Elizabeth, so there _is_ solid evidence backing my assumption.” Rodney jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “And Kirk here draws them like moths to a flame, so--”

Hey!” John protested, straightening up, fists clenched at his sides.

Elizabeth closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Both of you, please calm down and sit down.” They sat, Rodney jiggling his leg and grumbling _sotto voce_ , and John shooting him angry glares as he pulled up a chair, reversed it and folded his arms across the backrest.

Rodney’s fingers beat a rapid tattoo on his knee. “People are taking bets on how the damn story’s going to play out, _and_ it’s been given a title: _Desert Rose_. Cadman and Sergeant Mehra were speculating today in the mess about, er--” He twitched a nervous glance at John. “Speculating wildly. It’s the romantic sheikh thing with the character who’s meant to be me, although really he bears no real resemblance, he’s far too fussy and preoccupied with what people call him -- shut up, Colonel! And what’s my character supposed to be doing in a tent out in the Sahara, anyway? Developing a Grand Unified Theory of _camels?_ Okay, okay, so maybe it’s not a woman who’s behind this, could be some twink with a crush on Sheppard--”

“McKay!” John was this close to decking him.

“Stop right there, Rodney, or you’ll be looking at another mandatory Sensitivity Training course.” Elizabeth was ominously tight around the mouth. Rodney slumped back in his chair and she continued. “You and Miko haven’t been able to trace the culprit yet?”

“Oh of course, which is why it’s still going on _unchecked!_ No, we haven’t cracked it. Miko can’t find any other signs of intrusion or hacking, though, so that’s something at least. Just the damn story being uploaded to the public server every day or so by some mysterious author who leaves no traces! It’s a fucking locked room mystery!” Rodney didn’t usually swear like that in front of her; John reckoned the stress was getting to him.

Elizabeth frowned. "Keep trying. I’m going to make a clear statement that there will be serious repercussions if this doesn’t stop immediately. No one likes cleaning duty at the waste recycling plant. Meanwhile, try to stay calm. The more you react -- yes, I’m looking at you, Rodney -- the more encouragement you give the perpetrator. This whole thing will just blow over if you can treat it like the trivial nonsense it undoubtedly is." Elizabeth stood. “Thank you, gentlemen."

.........

They trailed out, Rodney drooping and John kicking angrily at the doorjamb. John broke the silence as they trudged toward the transporters. "What's all this stuff about your character being a sheikh? What’s so romantic about that?"

"There's a long and irritating tradition dating from Victorian England's romaticization of Arabia and all things Egyptian. Not helped by the advent of silent movies. You could read something other than Russian novels, you know, Colonel."

"Yeah, well, I'm kinda monogamous as far as books go, McKay. I like to savor 'em. What silent movies?"

"Oddly, one called _The Sheik_ ," Rodney said sardonically. "Starring Rudolph Valentino. You must have heard of it."

"Oh yeah, I saw it at some festival." John had a vague recollection of having his pants bored off him by a ridiculous black and white film that his date had needed to see for a Film Studies course. There had been kidnapping and a tent in the desert, but he'd fallen asleep before he found out what happened, and woke up in the cinema alone. Not one of his greatest dating moments. “Wasn't Valentino gay? He sure wore a lot of eye make-up for a straight guy."

"Well, precisely, hence our problem with the fevered imaginations of the female (and twink) population of the city!"

"Rodney, I don't think there _is_ a twink population here. There's a lower age limit for marines, and the scientists take a while to get all those PhDs. Unless you mean the Athosians, and I can't see them writing this sort of stuff."

"I was very definitely still a twink when I finished my second PhD, thank you very much, Colonel. Some of us were extremely precocious, due to our superior intellects."

"A twink, huh?" John grinned and pressed the transporter button for the floor where senior staff quarters were located. John had never exactly been a twink, too repressed and closeted for that. He could imagine a cute young Rodney with longer hair, though.

"Well, I, er. Young. I just meant I was young." Rodney shifted uncomfortably, neck flushed. His eyes slid away from John, then back. The transporter door pinged and he bolted out.

John followed him down the hallway. "So, what, you think this writer's casting you as the romantic sheikh and me as the captive damsel? I can't say I'm seeing it so far."

"I'm not saying _anything_ like that, Colonel! It's Cadman and Mehra and Dr Porter and their cronies who're gossiping and making this out to be something...something..." They had reached Rodney's door and he opened it, obviously relieved.

"Something?" asked John, just to see Rodney's ears go pink again.

Rodney stepped through the door then turned, blowing out an angry breath. "Yes, Colonel. Something. Goodnight." The door hissed shut.

"'Night, Rodney," John said to the closed door. He walked to his own room at the end of the corridor and palmed the lock. Something, huh? Inside, he picked up the latest printout of _Desert Rose_. Nope, it was just the sheikh-Rodney guy looking after the Sheppard character who'd nearly died. He read the last line again. "As he slid away, a hand brushed lightly through his hair." John frowned.

That night, he dreamed that he was struggling through the sand, lost, with Holland a dead weight across his back. Then Holland wasn't there and he was falling, rolling headlong down a huge dune until he lay winded at its base, staring up at someone blotting out the sun. Someone who kicked him and said _get up, Colonel_ and gave him a canteen to drink from. _You can have my powerbar_ he told Rodney, and they were in a tent filled everywhere with candles. John was lying on satin pillows reading _War and Peace_ while Rodney, dressed in Princess Leia's slave-girl outfit, stood in the middle and gyrated his hips, lazily keeping a hula-hoop going while he explained how they could get 5% more power from the jumpers if only everyone would stop watching silent movies on the HUD. The metal bra looked kinda silly on him; John wanted to take it off.

John woke in the morning, confused impressions of a hand carding gently through his hair fragmenting in the light of day.

 

======o0o======

 

John's sunburn peeled and he managed longer walks, doing callisthenics to get his strength back. He'd graduated rapidly from dates and bread to British army rations and lentil stews made by the half-glimpsed jewelry-draped women in the Bedouin camp outside Rodney's tent. John preferred the Bedouin dishes but Rodney was happy to eat Spam and crackers.

Ali and Nasir were some sort of leaders of the tribal group camped all around them. They seemed like okay guys, grinning at him gap-toothed and handy with their guns: modern Mark Four Lee-Enfield rifles. Had Rodney supplied the weapons? Ali spoke enough English to get by, which was just as well as John's Arabic was limited to beer-ordering and souk-bargaining and involved a lot of hand signals and dramatic facial expressions.

After a couple of weeks, when John was sharing tea around a fire after Rodney had kicked him out -- 'You're ruining my concentration, Captain, just, just _leaning_ there. Go annoy someone else!' -- Ali mentioned that some of the tribe's young men had found his wrecked plane.

" _Badiya warda_ ," Ali said, "Desert Rose. You are one who flies?"

"Yeah, a pilot," John agreed. "Look, I know I've said it before, but thanks for finding me and bringing me here _._ " He raised his cup to them.

" _Ma sa' Allah_." Said Ali, shrugging. "God willed it." Nasir nodded.

" _Khayyal-rih_ ," murmured Nasir. John looked a question.

"Rider of the Wind," translated Ali. He cuffed Nasir gently on the back of the head. "Nasir, he is a poet." Nasir grinned apologetically and ducked his head.

" _Khayyal-rih_ ," tried John, liking how it sounded. "So what does Nasir call Lieutenant Doctor McKay?"

" _Adib Kazim,_ " offered Nasir.

"It means: 'well-mannered and polite one'," explained Ali.

John raised his eyebrows.

Ali grinned. "It is a joke. The women call him _Azraq 'ayn_ \-- 'Blue Eyes'." He nudged John with his elbow, smirking. "With eyes like that, they do not mind that he is not so polite, but luckily he shows no interest. He is a scholar."

 _"Azraq 'ayn"_ John repeated. Yeah, they were a deep, startling blue in some lights. Not that he got to see that much, as Rodney was generally inside the tent hunched over his physics papers and slide rule, scribbling in various notebooks and working obsessively on some electrical contraption that ran on valves, crystals and a series of large, acid-encrusted batteries. It covered most of a camp table and Rodney wouldn't tell him what it was.

"What part of 'top secret' don't you get, Sheppard? 'Loose lips sink ships' and all that."

"Come on, Rodney, we're supposed to be allies, you can call me Shep. Just give me the short version -- I used to build ham radios back home."

Rodney snorted and switched another resistor, checked a dial then scribbled figures in his notebook. "Yes, very good, Captain. Come back when you've got a couple of PhDs and I'll try to explain it."

"Will an MA in math do?"

Rodney straightened and put down his screwdriver, squinting at John across the dimly-lit tent. "Huh. Just when I think I've got you pigeon-holed."

"You don't know the first thing about me, Rodney." John kicked irritably at a heavily carved wooden trunk. Ow. "You don't know that I like the mint tea Nasir's wife brews better than that foul coffee and chicory you drink, or that I like Ferris wheels and driving fast--"

"That part I'd guessed," Rodney interjected, smiling crookedly.

"--or that I'm a big fan of Superman. Hell, you probably don't even know about Detective Comics, and Marvel, being Canadian."

"Superman? The Batman's far superior, Sheppard. _And_ he's self-made, not a muscle-bound idiot with no more qualification for his role than being an interplanetary refugee."

John grinned. "You got any comics here?"

Rodney indicated the carved box with his chin. "Try in there, and if you get gun-oil on them I'll take you back out into the desert myself and leave you for the jackals."

The comics kept John going for a while, and he got Ali to give him camel-riding lessons. Man, those camels were hard-asses; nothing like the horses he'd grown up with in Texas and Virginia. The Bedouin had a handful of horses as well, sturdy animals with a little Arab blood. The tribe's tents spread out from a large rock formation and from a cleft in the rocks a clear spring bubbled up to form a pool and a small green oasis. John spent quite bit of time in the shadow of the rocks fooling around with the tribe's kids and grooming the horses as they grazed beneath the rock wall.

The spring was a welcome relief from the heat of the day, with the _khamsin_ still blowing off and on, filling their mouths and eyes with dust even through the scarves everyone swathed themselves with. Not as bad as the storm that had downed him, but wearing on the nerves. Rodney cursed and draped gauzy veils weighted with gold coins over his precious contraption when the wind was at its worst.

John opened the collar of his tunic a little more and rubbed the back of his neck. It was gritty; everywhere was gritty. Rodney had insisted he wear local clothing to blend in, as apparently they were "undercover".

"The goddam Nazis are all in Tunisia, Rodney. Who's going to see my flight-suit out here?"

"You can't be too careful, Captain," Rodney had said huffily. "Ali will give you something."

Ali had come up with an old Egyptian army uniform that an uncle had worn in the Great War. The tunic was cotton and loose enough not to be stifling. John tucked the pants into his half-laced boots. The outfit came with a bandolier and some useful leather belt-pouches. It was black, which wasn't the most practical color for the desert, but John liked it, even if it did smell of camel. Everything out here smelled of camel.

He felt a little guilty about being MIA while the war moved inexorably on and fellow-pilots flew back-to-back missions in the skies above England. Not that he deluded himself that his getting back to Cairo would make any damn difference to the war; he'd been side-lined with the Hurricane squadron anyway. But John wanted to retrieve Holland's body after the _khamsin_ settled, and at some stage his reappearance would be less an occasion for feasting the prodigal, and more likely to lead to a grilling about desertion.

Rodney had made it clear that his project was far more important than John getting back to base. He hinted that time was of the essence and that until some big upcoming mission was completed, John would have to cool his heels in the camp. John used all his best wheedling and whining skills, even the pout, but all he could find out was:

  

  1. Rodney was Canadian, with PhDs in astrophysics and engineering.
  

  2. He'd been recruited from a tenured post at the University of Toronto and had worked at Bletchley Park before being sent here, but something had gone wrong there. 
  

  3. Rodney was a lieutenant in the Canadian Air Force intelligence corps. ("Y'know, I outrank you McKay -- you should really salute me. " "Shut up, Sheppard."). 
  

  4. He was some sort of expert on radar - he called it 'wireless telemetry' and had developed it for his astrophysics research but was now required to apply it to more mundane matters like defeating the Nazis. 
  

  5. The camp-table science project was a Big Deal and Rodney was convinced that it would Save The World. 
  



One evening, in the dusk when it was a little cooler, Ali and Nasir took him out riding, racing down a wadi in the fading light. Nasir won, Ali a close second, but John wasn't far behind, old skills returning in a rush of adrenaline. They left the horses back at the spring so that Nasir's son could groom them. Nasir clapped him on the back while Ali laughed and said John had a Bedu soul. John ducked his head, pleased, then filled a bowl with water and brought it back to the tent.

Rodney wasn't there. Sometimes he went and sat up in the rocks, to get away and think. John lit a candle then stripped off his tunic and found a small sliver of soap. He began to wash himself, wiping away the dust of the ride.

A sharp intake of breath and he turned around, startled. Rodney stood there, eyes black in the candlelight as he stared at John's chest. Oh, John thought. _Oh._

He lifted the wet cloth. "Wash my back? I can't reach it so well." He held Rodney's eyes, hardly breathing, like a hunter with a deer in his sights.

After a long moment, Rodney's mouth quirked and he crossed the floor and took the cloth, turning John with a hand to his shoulder. He wiped down John's shoulders and sides, then dragged the washcloth down his back in long strokes. John could feel water trickling down inside the waistband of his cotton pants, into the cleft of his ass. His hips moved involuntarily and his breathing caught.

Rodney's grip tightened, turning John back toward him. He dropped the cloth into the bowl and took hold of John's shoulders, drawing him closer. "You're such a damn distraction," Rodney said, staring at his mouth.

John shut his eyes and leaned in.

 

======o0o======

 

"Let me in damn it, Rodney!"

The door hissed open, revealing a glowering McKay. "That's right, Colonel, feed the fantasies of our deranged underlings by coming to my room!"

"I come to your room all the time, and you're not helping by keeping me standing outside making a goddam scene for the rumor mill." John pushed past Rodney and strode inside, the door whooshing shut on his heels. He wheeled and stalked back again, right up into Rodney's space. "This has got to stop! I can't have someone insinuating this about me and, and you. It's just not...I can't. It has to stop, you have to stop it!"

Rodney's mouth thinned into a miserable line. "And how do you suggest I do _that_ since I'm, oh I don't know, _not responsible for the damn thing in the first place_? Want me to blow up the server? Because that's what it would take. _None_ of our best hackers can trace the damn uploads, not even Radek and Miko."

John made a wordless sound of frustration and flung himself down on Rodney's bed, head in hands. "So much for the Uniform Code. The marines are going to have a fucking field day with this latest chapter."

"Well, just put them on punishment detail if they so much as look at you, for Christ's sake! What about me with half the Science Department behind on their projects because they're mooning over the UST--"

"The what?" John narrowed his eyes.

"Unresolved Sexual Tension, it's a fanfic term."

"Huh," muttered John. "Didn't seem all that unresolved to me at the end there. Fuck, fuck, fuck." He scrubbed his hands across his face.

"Oh, believe me, Colonel, that was mild compared to some of the stuff they write in these fics. It was practically three dots and fade to black, not explicit at all."

John looked horrified. "You mean it could get worse, _more_ X-rated? Rodney, we have to _do_ something!"

Rodney shrugged and rubbed his temple, looking like he was fending off a migraine. "There's nothing we _can_ do, John. It's like Elizabeth said -- we're going to have to ignore it and shame them into stopping. We can't let it get to us so much that we can't do our jobs."

"But they can write anything! They've got me stripped to the waist and washing myself like that scene out of _Witness!"_

"Why am I not surprised that you think you're Harrison Ford?" Rodney waved his hands. "You think a little triteness is the problem? My character's building a moronic science project out in the fucking desert! It makes no sense whatsoever!" He plonked himself down on the edge of the bed beside John and they both stared morosely at the floor. "Even Teyla doesn't get it," Rodney said sadly. "She had her humor-the-natives face on but she was positively twinkling on the inside. I think she thinks it's cute."

John sighed. "Ronon can't see what we're upset about. He said that on Sateda famous warriors in the army used to have epic poetry written about them by their followers. He reckons we should take it as a compliment."

"It's not _him_ doing this, is it?" Rodney asked, frowning. John glared at him. "No, right, of course not. See? The stress is making me stupid!" They stared down at the floor some more, then Rodney stood up. "Come on, let's act like normal and go get breakfast. Soldier on, Colonel."

He stretched out a hand to John who regarded it suspiciously. Rodney snapped his fingers impatiently in his face and John batted his arm away. He rose smoothly and found himself back in Rodney's personal space again; he could feel Rodney's body-warmth. "Once more into the breach again, huh?" said John, then mentally kicked himself. Lame.

Rodney blinked then shook himself. "It's unto the breach, not into. And can I just point out what a singularly unfortunate metaphor that is, given our current predicament." Ignoring the way John's ears flushed red, he led the way out of the room.

As they crossed the threshold, John's radio activated. Keying it, and flapping a "slow down" gesture at Rodney, he paused outside the door. Rodney crossed his arms and looked impatient. "Sheppard here."

"John." It was Elizabeth. "There's been a...development in the _Desert Rose_ situation. I'll need to meet with you and Rodney immediately in the main conference room. Do you know where he is?"

"Yeah, I'll make sure he's there. Sheppard out." John looked at Rodney.

"What? Make sure I'm where?"

John hooked his fingers in the neck of Rodney's t-shirt and pulled. "C'mon, Buddy, there's been a development."

.........

"I don't _believe_ it!" Rodney shouted.

"Is true, Rodney, Kavanagh is _viník_ , is culprit. I found evidence myself, working early this morning." Zelenka shrugged. "Seems he forgot we randomly access staff laptops to check for virus and time-waste programs. Your orders, if you recall, especially Freecell and Hangman. _Desert Rose_ file was open on his desktop with many notes and edits. He is _hloupý_ : minimal password protection only, and you and I are sysadmin."

"But the man's an _idiot!_ " yelled Rodney again, straining toward the door of the conference room like a barely-leashed terrier bent on finding Kavanagh and savaging him. John held him back with a hand fisted in the back of his jacket, looking thunderous.

"Rodney, calm yourself," Elizabeth said sternly. "John, Rodney, please sit down so we can discuss what action to take."

"No, you don't understand: Kavanagh really _is_ an idiot and I really _don't_ believe it," Rodney said fiercely after John had dragged him down into a chair. He slapped his palm down on the table. "Ow. Much as I would love for him to be the perpetrator and much as I'm sure he _is_ capable of an elaborate plot to embarrass me, he's _utterly_ incapable of uploading the file to the server undetected. It _can't_ be him. Or it can't _only_ be him."

John balled his fists on the table. "We should have made him go straight back to Earth on the Daedalus - they only left two weeks ago. Just because he was paranoid that Caldwell was still snaked and he insisted on waiting 'til the next Daedalus voyage after Caldwell'd been double-checked back at the SGC. Crap. We're gonna have to interrogate him _again_." John keyed his radio. "Ronon? Main conference room in five? Yeah, thanks Buddy."

" _No!"_ said Elizabeth, shaking her head. "Oh no, we're not doing this again. Not with Ronon."

"Worked last time," muttered John.

"No it did _not_ work last time!" Elizabeth snapped, leaning across the table. "Kavanagh fainted, thank goodness, so we narrowly avoided torturing an innocent man!"

"I wouldn't go so far as to say 'innocent'," protested Rodney. "He single-handedly blew out the failsafe in the third level junction box last week, causing the botanists to lose a year's worth of genetically improved tormack plants. Torture's the least he deserves."

"There will be _no torture_ ," Elizabeth repeated grimly, her mouth a thin line.

"Nah, 'course not, just a little looming and playing with knives was what I had in mind. Can't beat Ronon for looming." Elizabeth looked dubious. John leaned forward. "Look, Elizabeth, do you actually give a damn that damaging, libelous material is being written which could destroy my career and cause me to be removed from command and sent back to Earth?" John stood and leaned forward, hands on the table, voice rising. _"Because I sure as hell do!"_

Ronon appeared in the doorway. "Sheppard. We got a mission?"

"Yeah," said John, breathing hard, still staring at Elizabeth. "Yeah, we do." He looked from Elizabeth to Radek. "Where's Kavanagh?"

"Still in his quarters, guarded by two marines," Elizabeth said quietly. "But, John--"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, we'll be cool. No torture." Ronon looked faintly disappointed.

John started for the door. "And where do you think _you're_ going?" demanded Rodney, knocking over his chair as he scrambled up. "Wait -- I'm coming too."

"I don't know--" said Elizabeth, worried.

"No, you _don't_ know, Elizabeth," Rodney said curtly. "And nor do Han Solo and Chewie here. They're not going to be able to ask Kavanagh the right questions so as to figure out what the hell's going on with the network and who he's working with."

Elizabeth looked at Radek, who shrugged. "Is correct," he said, "unfortunately. Suddenly I pity Kavanagh just a little."

"Wait." Elizabeth raised her hand. "Radek, please go as well. I need a cooler head there to provide some restraint."

" _Do pice_ ," muttered Radek, but he pushed back his chair and followed them.

.........

"Beta-reading?" asked Elizabeth, looking confused.

"Fanfic term for editing," Rodney said briskly, pacing up and down between the table and the view-screen. "Yes, yes, he's a cretin, as we know. Kavanagh's giant ego -- yes, thank you, Colonel, I saw that eye-roll, and you can stop smirking as well, Conan -- anyway, his inflated sense of self-esteem led him to believe that he could and should act as a grammar beta for whoever's writing the damn fic. He downloaded and 'edited' the file from the server but he swears blind he didn't get around to uploading it again. Says that the grammatical changes he made on his laptop just appeared in the fic overnight, after he left the file open on his desktop. Yes, he's a security black hole, Radek, no surprises there." Rodney shot a sidelong glance at John. "I also think he was motivated by revenge, after the recent incident with Ronon. He's sure that Colonel Sheppard was involved in the decision to, er, extract information from him forcibly. If he could have written something skeevy into the fic about Elizabeth and Ronon he would have, but the plot didn't allow for it. And basically, he's a dick and he hates me."

"So he's involved," said Elizabeth slowly, "but he's not..."

"Minimally involved only," dismissed Rodney. "He's not the main person behind this, that's obvious. Someone accessed his laptop -- which Radek has shown is ridiculously easy -- and used his edits to improve the story." Rodney winced and slumped down next to John. "Um, 'improve' isn't quite the word I'm looking for here."

Elizabeth frowned. "So how does this help us locate the person who _is_ behind all this?"

John nudged Rodney. "McKay?"

Rodney looked defeated. "It doesn't. Kavanagh's a red herring and we still haven't the slightest idea who's doing it."

John sat abruptly and turned to Rodney. "Wait, wait -- we can replay the security feed on the lab and see who got into his laptop and accessed the file!"

"Yeah, no. Feel free, but I'm betting you'll only see Kavanagh himself and then Radek this morning. We already know that the person who's doing this has got hacking skills of the first order if he or she can hide the traces from me and Miko."

"And me," muttered Radek, nodding.

"Yes, yes, and you." Rodney flapped a hand at him. "So I think it's a certainty that the culprit didn't access it manually, but went in through the network. Then the file was uploaded untraceably again, by, I don't know, sacrificing a _chicken_ on the console or something." Rodney glowered, personally affronted.

"So, bottom line, we're still up shit creek without a paddle," John said angrily.

Elizabeth winced, and Rodney hid his face in his hands.

"What?" demanded John. "What did I say?"

 

======o0o======

 

John would have liked more time to get to grips with what had happened between him and Rodney, but right about then, things took a sharp turn from a Rudolph Valentino flick to something more like an Adventure Comics story.

They woke to a strange noise, kind of like a siren. Rodney sat bolt upright, and John automatically went for his gun, then remembered he didn't have one.

"Oh my god!" Rodney's voice was shrill, and he scrambled up, smacking John in the nose with his elbow in his haste to get across the tent to the contraption on the camp table.

"Ow! Fugh!" John swore, doubled up in the nest of rugs, clutching his face and in no state to catch an eyeful of Rodney's bare ass on the way past, a shocking waste. "Wad the fug, Rodney? Jesus, way do breag my dose!"

"Oh, you'll live, Captain, knock it off," Rodney muttered distractedly, eyes fixed on the table where blue lights were flashing from a nest of crystals. He fiddled with something and the siren ceased abruptly. "Finally," he murmured, peering at a row of gauges and noting down their readings. "I _told_ Radek it would work, ha!"

John's nose was not in fact broken and the pain gradually subsided. He got up and pulled on his pants, then grabbed the long, dark blue tunic Rodney wore under his robe and brought it across to the table. "Here, I'm not sure I can cope with this much raw science. Well, not before breakfast."

"What? Oh, right." Rodney straightened and shrugged on the tunic then returned to furious calculations in his notebook.

John put on his shirt and wandered outside to find Nasir and locate some flatbread and cheese, and coffee for Rodney. He looked like he was going to need a lot of coffee.

Two hours later Rodney had had three cups of coffee and a huddled conference with Ali and Nasir, while John watched mutinously from the doorway of the tent. He was fed up with Rodney's protestations that it was "top secret" and "hush hush" and worried by signs of preparation for some sort of raid or scouting mission. Several of the tribe's men were readying camels and loading on water skins and bundles of provisions.

John finally snapped when Rodney returned to the tent, grabbing him by the front of his robes. "What's going on, damn it, you gotta tell me!"

Rodney had been strapping on a gun belt and bandolier, and he squeaked and batted at John's hand. "Stop that! Unhand me!"

Despite his annoyance, John grinned. "No, sweetheart, not until you let me in on what's going on." Rodney started to rant and John put his hand across his mouth. "Nuh uh. None of that 'top secret' crap, all right? I'm in the goddam USAAF on the same side as you, Rodney, so knock it off!"

Rodney glared at him, but John did his best implacable stare and finally Rodney's shoulders sagged. "Oh for... _hell._ " He frowned up at John, eyes flashing blue from the crystal display. "There's no time, Captain, and it's not easy to explain, even if you _had_ clearance, which hello, I don't _think_ so."

"Screw clearance, Rodney, gimme something to sign if you have to, just bring me on board. I can see that you're heading out somewhere with Ali and Nasir and I'm telling you, I'm not staying here biting my fucking nails and waiting."

"Jesus! Oh all right, already. Get yourself kitted out and see if Ali can find you a mount. You'll have to ride with one of them since your camel-wrassling skills are abysmal."

"Hey! I've had some lessons, I can manage," John was grinning though, relieved.

"No, I don't think so, Captain. Not for the distance that we need to travel."

John pulled Rodney up against him, teasing. "You know, Rodney, you can call me 'John'. I think we're on first-name terms now, after last night."

Rodney's mouth twisted up. "Oh, you think so?"

"Yeah, I think so," whispered John against his throat, mouthing stubble and licking the salty skin behind Rodney's ear.

"Oh god, fuck," muttered Rodney, voice hoarse, but he grabbed John's shoulders and pushed him away. "Can't, shit, we can't right now, sorry." He pulled John in again and kissed him hard, close-mouthed and desperate, then pushed him away again. "Later, when all this is over, I promise..."

"All what?"

"I'll tell you on the way."

 

======o0o======

 

John groaned and dropped the printout. First that stuff about "what had happened between him and Rodney" and then cracks about Rodney's ass and the Sheppard character licking his neck! And the kiss, no forgetting the kiss. The marines sure weren't gonna forget the kiss, that was a goddam certainty.

The latest chapter had hit the server just before John turned in for the night, tired and aching in a way that wasn't entirely physical. He wondered if Rodney had read it yet or if he was crashed out in the lab on his laptop, snoring over the latest long-range sensor graphs. He was visited by a momentary urge to pull on his boots and go check, maybe chivvy Rodney back to his room and into bed. Whoa, bad idea.

Maybe by the morning it'd have blown over, maybe by then everyone would have better things to do like, oh _fighting the Wraith_ for example. Yeah, right.

He cursed again and made himself carry on as usual. Undress, put his clothes in the laundry transporter, brush his teeth and into bed. Once there, he tossed and turned, trying not to think about the damn fic. Or Kavanagh, who was now threatening to file charges of bullying and harassment against him, McKay, and Elizabeth. Jackass.

He rolled over onto his back, hearing the words of the fic in his head. Mouthing McKay's stubble, the soft, salty skin behind his ear. John had sometimes looked at that very spot and wondered what it would taste like, wondered if Rodney's hair would be soft under his hand as he tilted his head for better access. He’d tried not to think those thoughts; it was too complicated. But the story was making it hard to ignore Rodney, hard not to imagine.

He rolled onto his side again, but it was no good, he was hard now and all he could think about was that goddam _Witness_ scene in the tent. Him stripped down wet and bare-chested, and Rodney staring dark-eyed from the shadows. John bit his lip as his skin prickled, feeling too tight, too hot.

Rodney's gaze was on him, burning, and his hand slid down to grab his dick, pulling and rubbing as he kicked off his boxers and rolled onto his back again. His hips strained upward and Rodney was behind him with the washcloth, wet fingers slipping down the back of John's pants, undoing the drawstring and pushing them off, pushing John down into the rugs and loosening him, slicking him with salve.

John's hand moved faster now and he rolled onto his front with his face buried in one arm, up on his knees and fucking hard into his hand. His ass was raised up, it felt empty and wanting and he needed, he _needed_ , and Rodney was opening him with his cock, oh yeah, thick and strong and sliding deep inside in one long thrust, making him cry out. Rodney was pinning him there and taking him, god, so good, fucking him and filling him and arching over, biting the back of his neck, and he came, pulsing wet into his hand as Rodney held him down and took him.

John groaned, lying limp in the wet spot, thighs trembling.

He was so very fucked.

 

======o0o======

 

By the end of the day, John was thankful he wasn't on a camel. Nasir had given him one of the horses, but he hadn't ridden regularly in years so his thighs were chafed and aching by the time Ali signalled them to stop and make camp at a bend in the wadi.

McKay was worse off, half-collapsing as Nasir and another guy helped him down off Nasir's camel where he'd been riding pillion. John went to help him and they staggered over to some bedrolls by a brushwood fire. A pot was set up and stew heated, scooped up with the usual flatbread. It tasted amazing. Ali and Nasir sat across the fire, murmuring to each other and calling out at times to one or other of the men. The Bedouin showed no signs of strain after the long journey and John watched them enviously as they moved lithe and easy, all muscle and sinew.

Behind Ali the animals snorted and shifted; John's horse whickered softly. Dusk fell, then night.

"So, Rodney, what's the 'all this' you were gonna tell me about on the way?" John spoke softly, poking the fire with a stick.

Rodney sighed. "All I want to do is sleep. God, I hate camels."

"C'mon McKay, you promised."

"Yeah, yeah, okay." Rodney rolled his neck and twisted his spine.

"Here, you talk, I'll give you a back-rub." John shifted around behind him and slid the now not-so-white cloak down, squeezing Rodney's shoulders through the dark blue robe. "Man, you're really tense. C'mon, spill."

"Right, right," moaned Rodney. "God that's good, do it again. Yes, there." He took a breath. "So, you know what Bletchley Park's for?"

"Code-breaking, yeah?"

"Yes. Alan Turing recruited me -- we knew each other from the math and physics world before the war. Not that cryptography's my thing, but a few papers I'd published meshed with things he was working on -- a machine to...solve problems. I can't tell you the details, it really is very classified."

John dug his thumbs in below Rodney's shoulder blades and worked out the knots there, making Rodney drop his head forward. Tempting to kiss his neck, but no, not here, not with Ali and Nasir nearby. "It's okay. Go on."

"Well, we got close. Alan and me, I mean. All that discovery and problem-solving pushed us together. We..."

This wasn't going in the direction John had figured. He didn't like the sound of this other guy, Turing, what? Kissing Rodney? Touching him? "Yeah, yeah, I get it McKay," John muttered, hands stilling on Rodney's shoulders. He felt stupid, taken in; Rodney had someone else, like a girl back home. Shit.

"You've stopped, why did you stop?" Rodney asked plaintively. "Are you upset about me and Alan? No, no, that's all over, it had to stop. That's why I'm out here, I'm trying to explain."

"Yeah?" John felt off-kilter, restless. He shifted back to sit beside McKay again, not looking at him.

"Oh for, come here," muttered Rodney, manhandling him down into the bedrolls. John balked, but he could see the others curled up just outside the circle of firelight, nestled into each other for warmth in the desert night. Men could hold hands and sit close here, even sleep together. All it meant was friendship, an innocence the West had lost. Rodney pulled him into the curve of his body, warm along John's back, and wrapped his cloak around them both.

"Yes, I had an affair with Alan, deal with it, it's over," Rodney said, his arm around John holding him still so that he had to lie there and listen. "We weren't really suited: too alike, we wore each other out." Rodney sighed. "Then some stupid WAAF with a crush on Alan ratted us out to the brass, and that was that. Turing was too central to Bletchley: it was me they got rid of. Anyway, by then we'd picked up the weird signals out here, and I'd almost perfected the scanner, so it made a hideous sort of sense. The army set it up with Ali's tribe, who were friendlies, and shipped me off with trunks of gear. But the signal never returned, and the scanner kept breaking, so I've been here for the best part of a year now, living with the Bedouin. Yours is the first British or American face I've seen for, god, four months, I think."

Rodney continued. "On paper, I'm intelligence liaison to the Bedouin, but really I've been waiting, and trying to keep the scanner operational. The army doesn't understand the science: no one does except Turing. The brass have pretty much forgotten I exist. Alan sends me food parcels when he can -- chocolate he scrounges from whichever American serviceman he's with at the time." Rodney tightened his arm around John. "So that's the story. I got relegated here, I finished the scanner and battled to keep it functioning, and finally, finally, it picked up the signal again."

"That's what that alarm was last night? The signal?"

"Yes, and the scanner pinpointed its latitude and longitude, which we hadn't been able to do with any accuracy before. The energy reading's like nothing we've ever seen. Alan's afraid it's some secret Nazi project, buried out here where they hoped it'd go undetected. They've no idea how advanced our radar telemetry is."

"We're following the signal?"

"Yes, well, we're going to its origins. I had to leave the scanner at the camp. You saw: it's not portable. I'm just hoping whatever makes the signal is fixed, not moving. We'll find out soon; only another few hours tomorrow and we'll be there."

"You've no idea what this signal represents? It could be the Germans making it, or our own side, maybe, or even some natural phenomenon?"

"Not natural, no, I told you, it's new. There's nothing in current technology that could make it and I'm reasonably sure it's not our side who're responsible, appalling though the army is telling the left hand what the right hand's doing."

"A mystery," murmured John, his eyes shutting.

Rodney pulled another cover over them and curled in tighter. "Mmmm. Like you."

.........

"No," Ali said again. "This place is bad luck, it is cursed."

Rodney rolled his eyes and launched into another tirade involving stupid superstitions, ignorant nonsense and unscientific claptrap, but John could see Ali was unmoved. The scanner readings had brought them to a harmless-looking cleft in a rocky cliff-face. It was identical to any other rock formation to John's eyes, but the Bedouin had been edgy all morning, growing more and more skittish the closer they came to their goal.

"There is evil here," Nasir said, making a warding gesture. His camel snorted and reared a little, sensing his fear. Nasir reined her in and glanced at Ali, shaking his head. Ali nodded, curt.

"We will not go with you, if you enter," said Ali, face grim. "Our people have tales of this place. Bad tales." He pointed to a nearby ridge, overlooking the dry valley below the cliffs. "We will wait for you there, for two days. But Lieutenant Doctor McKay, do not enter there -- you will not return."

Rodney lifted his jaw stubbornly. "I have to; it could be important to the war. I haven't spent a year in the desert sweating blood to fix that damn scanner just to give up now." He wiped a trickle of sweat out of his eyes and turned to John. "You'll be all right with Ali and Nasir. They'll look after you and get you back to Cairo if I don't return." He thrust out his hand. "Thanks for...well, thanks. I, um. It was nice knowing you."

John squinted at the outstretched hand, and took a step back, crossing his arms. "Nuh-uh, I don't think so, McKay," he said, shaking his head. "You're not getting rid of me just when things're getting interesting. No way."

"You don't know what we might find in there, Captain. It could be anything!"

"Yeah, exactly. You've no idea either, _and_ you're a scientist. At least I've had military training if we do run into a nest of German spies or something."

"Oh, for!" Rodney rubbed at his temple, smearing it with dust. "Sheppard, you're a pilot, not a marine, and I have _so_ done military training -- when they enlisted me. This isn't your fight; you're only here by accident!"

"No point discussing it, Rodney: I'm coming." John turned to the Bedouin. "Got a rifle I can borrow, Ali? Any other weapons?" Ignoring Rodney's protests he accepted one of the Mark Fours and a wickedly sharp bone-handled knife. Nasir directed him to one of the saddlebags, where John found two grenades wrapped in soft leather. He nodded his thanks to Nasir, who inclined his head gravely.

He turned back to find Rodney awkwardly clutching a Lee-Enfield of his own. "You know how to use that thing?" John asked. The last thing he needed was to be kneecapped by friendly fire.

"I most certainly do, Captain," Rodney snapped.

John shrugged and stowed the knife in his boot, slipped the grenades into his belt pouch and saluted Ali and Nasir. "Guess we're all set, then. Ali, Nasir, we'll hope to see you shortly. Thanks again."

" _In ša' allāh._ " The Bedouin bowed their heads and turned, leading their mounts out of the valley and toward the ridge.

"Right," John said. "Let's head out." Muttering something about the armed forces being a breeding ground for bullies, Rodney followed. At the base of the cliff John turned and paused. "Take your cloak off. And that scarf thing on your head."

"What? I will not, I have very delicate skin and in case you hadn't noticed it's sunburn central out here!"

"Yeah, out here. In there you're gonna to glow in the dark with all that white. Take it off for now -- we can pick it up later."

Grumbling, Rodney stripped off his loose robe and headgear. He looked smaller in only the indigo under-tunic, vulnerable. John squeezed his arm. "I'll go first, and Rodney? No talking."

"Yes, yes, Captain, I'm not a moron. Speaking of which, we'll be needing this." He pulled a small lamp from one of the pockets of the discarded cloak. Rummaging in his belt pouch he located a candle stub and matchbox and brandished them triumphantly.

John nodded. "Okay, good thinking, but keep it hidden as much as you can."

With Rodney at his heels, he walked into the darkness.

 

======o0o======

 

John leaned on the South Pier railing, gasping for breath. Ronon jogged in place nearby, shaking out his arms. If he dropped down and did a few push-ups, John was going to kick him in the head.

"Bit out of condition, Sheppard," Ronon offered helpfully.

"Thanks, Big Guy, appreciate you pointing that out." John glared up at Ronon, who grinned and did a couple of star jumps. John regretted leaving his sidearm back in his room. "Been a few things going on for me lately, in case you hadn't noticed."

Ronon shrugged. "People make stuff up wherever you go, Sheppard -- tall tales and stuff about the past, and stories about people in their village. This place's just another village."

John blew a breath out, considering. "Yeah, I guess you're right. We call it a city but it's more like a village really. Huh."

"Don't let it get to you," advised Ronon, jogging off backwards down the pier. "No one gives a shit about you and McKay." He about-faced nimbly and sped away.

"What? Hey, Ronon!" John lurched back into motion as Ronon rounded a corner and disappeared up some stairs. "Wait up, you bastard. What d'you mean 'me and McKay'? There _is_ no 'me and McKay!'" He pounded up the steps, cursing, but Ronon was already out of sight.

"Fuck," said John, and limped off to the nearest transporter.

.........

"Thank you, sir," said Lorne, taking the stack of requisitions from him and knocking them sharply on the desk until the edges were neatly aligned.

John could have tidied up the pile but he figured he'd done his bit by reading and signing the damn things. Hiding out from the marines and the rest of the Atlantis population was sure making a dent in his paperwork.

His stomach rumbled, and Lorne smirked. "Time for a break, sir?"

Lunch. The mess hall. Everyone would have read the latest instalments by now, and he could just imagine the way it'd go quiet when he came in, and the way they'd all be looking or pretending not to look. And what if Rodney was there? A cold sweat broke out along his spine: Jesus no, he couldn't.

"Best keep at it, I think, Major. Must be some more forms you need me to fill out? How about those evaluations?"

"Nope, you're all up to date, sir. The Gate Team evals aren't due for another two weeks."

"Right," said John, desperately. "Well, I'll just--"

"It's okay, sir." Lorne rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "Um, the fic thing, y'know? The guys are taking it pretty well, considering." He shrugged. "Got a betting pool on what's in the cave, last I heard. Rasmussen thinks it's gonna be like in _The Mummy_ , with a curse and those scarab things."

John stared up, aghast. No way were they talking about this, not him and Lorne? "Uh. Yeah. I never did see that one on movie night. Bugs, y'know. Not my thing."

"Right, sir," Lorne nodded earnestly, "copy that." He grinned. "O'Reilly's got his money on Dracula -- I told him that Dracula's from Transylvania, not Egypt, but his geography's a little off. And the Wraith don't mind deserts, so that confuses the men where vampires are concerned."

John listened open-mouthed, still stuck on _the guys are taking it pretty well_. "I'm glad the marines are enjoying it, Major," he managed after a moment. "I thought...some parts...might be causing a few problems."

Lorne shrugged. "No one cares, sir, and anyway they all know about you and Dr McKay."

"Know _what!"_ John yelled. "There's nothing _to_ know!"

Lorne tapped his nose. " 'Course not, sir. You're not telling and I'm sure as hell not asking." He winked and backed out of the room, grinning.

John put his head in his hands. Fucking Christ.

His radio activated. "Colonel? Colonel Sheppard, is Zelenka here."

"Dr Zelenka?"

"Can you please come to Rodney's lab, Colonel? Is emergency."

John leapt to his feet and ran for the transporter. "What, is he hurt?" he panted. "Radek? Are you all okay?"

"Rodney is...not fine, but not hurt. Not yet. Please to get down here, Colonel, before Simpson castrates him with soldering iron."

"What? Has she been infected by a nanovirus? Why would she?--"

"Just be quick as possible please, Colonel. Is volatile situation."

John skidded into the transporter. "Be there in two." He slapped the touch-screen for the labs.

 

======o0o======

 

They had walked for maybe an hour down a rough passage which seemed part natural cavern and part man-made, with roughly finished walls and floor. The path led noticeably downwards, sometimes with shallow steps cut into the rock.

John turned a corner and came upon a carved stone lintel, three massive blocks in the classic _pi_ arrangement. There was no door, just more darkness beyond. He looked at Rodney, who was sweaty and pale. "You okay, Buddy?" he murmured.

"No," whispered Rodney miserably. "Really not happy with enclosed spaces." John nodded and rubbed his back reassuringly; he didn't much like the sense of tons of rock all around them, either.

Rodney swallowed and peered through the doorway. "At least it widens out in there." He lifted his chin and led John through the doorway. On the other side, perfectly fitted stone blocks formed the floor and walls of a wide, high-vaulted passage. Rodney stopped and raised the lamp, peering at what looked like an Egyptian cartouche carved into one wall.

John leaned in. "Reckon it's a tomb? Some old Pharaoh?"

"Oh, let me think. It looks ancient. There are hieroglyphs. We're in Egypt," hissed Rodney sarcastically.

John cuffed him on the back of the head, producing muffled spluttering. "Knock it off, Rodney," he whispered. "So, can you read it?"

Rodney huffed irritably, then leaned in. John's eyes closed momentarily at the tickle of hot breath on his ear. "I'm a physicist, Captain, not some idiot archaeologist, but yes, as it happens I do recognize these symbols. I had to do something, stuck out here for a whole year, so I read up about nearby tombs and dig sites. This is the cartouche of the pharaoh Sneferu. We weren't that far from Dahshur and the Bent pyramid when we entered the cave, so we might have stumbled on some part of his tomb complex. No one knows where he's buried. The cartouche says 'Sneferu Endures'."

"The _Bent_ pyramid?" John muttered, smothering a snort.

"Yes, yes, laugh it up, Captain, because you're _twelve!"_ hissed Rodney, rolling his eyes.

They went on, deeper into the complex. The walls became increasingly covered with hieroglyphs, carvings interspersed with painted murals. Rodney stopped and peered at one panel, holding the lamp close.

"What is it?" whispered John.

"Odd symbols, like nothing I've seen in the books. They look almost like scorpions, or centipedes, or something." Rodney shrugged. "Well, I'm not an expert on this soft sciences stuff. The engineering aspect's the bit I was interested in."

Another ten minutes and John stopped abruptly, pressing Rodney against the wall and snuffing the lamp. He strained into the blackness. Yes, there: distant voices.

Rodney was trembling a little under his arm. "It's okay, Buddy. Look, along there -- there's a light source. And voices -- can you hear them?" He felt Rodney nod.

They crept on, feeling along the incised wall until the passage they were in opened onto a larger space filled with fat pillars. John led Rodney along, keeping them hidden from view until they could peer around a pillar at the group clustered in an open amphitheatre-like space.

"They don't _look_ like Nazis," Rodney muttered in John's ear. "They're locals, and there's too much gold."

John put a hand over his mouth to convey the urgent need that Rodney _shut the fuck up_. Rodney's eyes bugged out comically above his fingers and he elbowed John in the side. Wincing, John removed his hand and put a finger to his lips, frowning in warning.

The scene in front of them was brightly illuminated by glowing wall-panels and flickering torches. John pulled Rodney back behind the pillar a little, just to be safe. There were several armed guards, all in white robes and _keffiyeh_ and hung with red and gold braid. Gold and black surcoats gleamed in the torchlight. John squinted at the weapons: a few held rifles, but some of the men clutched strange, curving objects like metal snakes. They all had something on their foreheads, some symbol John couldn't decipher.

In the centre, a circular dais made of inlaid metal glowed brightly. Suddenly, a series of huge metallic rings dropped down from somewhere up above, white light searing out between them with a rush of noise. Rodney jumped and squeaked but the whooshing of the rings covered it. John squeezed his arm in warning. The rings disappeared upwards again, leaving a figure on the dais.

John blinked. Either a pharaoh had just dropped in for tea, or these guys were serious fancy dress aficionados. The new guy sure looked the part, all oiled brown skin, dark kohl-lined eyes and a gold headdress and collar. There was gold cloth wrapped around his hips, with a long linen underskirt falling to the floor. Not too many men could carry off a skirt, but he did so effortlessly, the guards bowing low before him as he stared around haughtily.

"Mukhtar," said the pharaoh in a weirdly resonant voice. Maybe it was the acoustics in this place, but it didn't sound entirely human.

One of the guards rose and came forward, head bowed. He stopped below the dais and replied deferentially, gesturing at the others still lying prostrate on the stone floor. John caught the name _Sneferu_ in there somewhere, and Rodney must have heard it too: he elbowed John again. John glared at him, mouthing _cut it out_. He tried to pull Rodney back even more, but after a silent tussle they remained in place.

The guards had brought someone else out of the shadows, a man with his wrists bound who struggled and cursed. He looked to be about forty, blond-haired and strongly built, dressed in a disheveled British army uniform. The one called Mukhtar restrained him and the pharaoh -- Sneferu? -- stepped in, gripping the man's jaw and turning it from side to side.

"You speak English," said Sneferu.

"Fuck off, you bastards!" the blond guy said, demonstrating the accuracy of this statement.

"And German?"

The man's eyes narrowed. "Why would I--" he began, but Sneferu struck him across the face.

"Do not lie," Sneferu ordered in that weird inhuman voice and his eyes had changed color, they were glowing bright gold, what the fuck? "Mukhtar was instructed to find me a spy, a double agent." The pharaoh looked at his underling, eyes cold. "If he has not, I shall be most displeased."

The Mukhtar guy glared at the blond man. "He speaks German, Lord. I observed him radioing his contact in Tunis only yesterday. He is Otto Gruber, known as Major Henry Braithwaite to the unit he had infiltrated in Cairo. His grasp of both languages is excellent and the body is healthy and uninjured. He will serve your purposes well."

"Hmmm," said Sneferu, head tilted as he assessed the man Otto, or Henry, whatever. "Yes, he has the Aryan looks that fool in Berlin has persuaded them to idolize. He will do. Ready him."

John watched as Mukhtar and some guards dragged the man over to a raised plinth. The guy yelled and cursed, first in English, then German, as his shirt was stripped away and he was forced down, back to the stone slab, his arms and legs pinned. John didn't like the look of this one bit: that plinth was too much like a sacrificial altar. But the guy was apparently a spy for the Nazis, so he deserved what was coming to him.

Sneferu took off his gold headdress, collar and linen skirt, revealing a white loincloth. He gave the clothing and jewelry to Mukhtar and glanced down at his chest. "Use a zat'ni'katel on this when the transition is complete," he said casually. Mukhtar bowed.

Sneferu bent over the struggling man on the altar and gripped the sides of his face, digging his thumbs into the man's jaw to force his mouth open. He leaned over and opened his mouth wide. Something with a lot of legs emerged from his throat in a spray of blood and fell onto the blond man's face. John screwed up his eyes in disgust, jeez, a goddam bug, revolting. He felt sick and almost had to look away, then the bug dove headlong into the blond guy's mouth mid-scream, and wriggled in, vanishing in seconds. The screaming intensified, although muffled, and John did turn away then, gagging at the thought of that thing in the guy's throat. Rodney shivered and made a soft moaning noise. The screams cut off abruptly and when John looked again the man was limp, asleep or unconscious. His chest was moving so he wasn't dead.

Mukhtar had caught Sneferu's body, which had sagged over the altar, across the blond man. He dragged Sneferu away and laid him down at one side, helped by one of the guards. Sneferu seemed to be unconscious as well. Mukhtar snapped an order at the guard, who drew one of the snake-shaped metal things from his belt and fired it in a burst of sizzling blue-green light -- huh, so it _was_ a weapon after all -- at Sneferu, whose body spasmed. John frowned, baffled. What was this, a palace coup? But Sneferu had seemed to set all this in motion: weird. The guard zapped Sneferu's body again, and then a third time, and wow, the body just disappeared completely, nothing left at all, not even a pile of ash.

John pulled Rodney around to the back of the pillar, heart racing. Rodney's eyes were blown wide and his eyes were distant, like he was running calculations in his head. This was totally something out of Adventure Comics or Marvel now, and John guessed they'd found out where the strange energy signals were coming from. He left Rodney processing and peered cautiously around the pillar again.

Mukhtar had produced a cloth from somewhere and was carefully cleaning the blood spatter off the blond guy's face and washing the dust and sweat from his chest. Nothing much happened for a minute or so, then the blond man's hand shot up to grip Mukhtar's and his eyes opened wide. "Enough," he said, and now _his_ voice had gone weird, all spooky and inhuman. Maybe it was that bug-thing? Maybe _that_ made their voices change?

The blond guy sat up and then stood. He flexed his shoulders and examined his hands, right then left, then brushed them down his torso. "Yes," he said in that unearthly voice, eyes glowing, "this will do very well. Far more appealing than the middle-aged dark-haired histrionic ruling Berlin at present. I will have no difficulty infiltrating the Reich now, and the Nazi empire will be mine within a year. That fool Ba'al will have no chance against me once the resources of this world are mine to command."

Mukhtar bowed. "Yes, my Lord Sneferu."

Sneferu? But he was dead...unless the bug-thing...John chewed his lip, trying to make sense of it.

The blond guy frowned at Mukhtar. "Do not call me Sneferu. I am Otto Gruber now, and we have much to do to prepare my path to Berlin. You have the false papers in both names?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Get me a zat'ni'katel, and clean clothing. You have more weapons stockpiled?"

"Indeed, my Lord, all is prepared."

 _Crap_ , John thought, _that's not good._ The Nazis were bad enough all by themselves without having some alien supervillain taking over and handing out ray-guns that could vaporize people completely. He stepped back so as to grab Rodney and figure out how to take these bastards out before they could get up to any more nasty tricks, but a chunk of fallen masonry was in his path and he tripped and half-fell, his rifle clattering to the floor and skidding away.

Rodney stared at him aghast from the next pillar over, and John pushed him further into the shadows well away from the rifle then dove after his gun. He could hear the guards coming but he scrabbled for the Mark Four, trying to bring it to bear on his pursuers. There was a blue-green flash and a shock of blinding pain, and then only darkness.

.........

John came to huddled in a bruised, aching heap on the inlaid metal floor. His brain hurt and his mouth tasted like burnt copper. Several guards stood around him, their ray-guns -- zat-thingys? -- trained on him. Before him stood Sneferu, or Gruber, or whoever the hell he was now. John pulled himself up on all fours, then sank back on his haunches. "Man, those things've got the kick of a mule, Worst hangover ever, and I'm including that tequila party in freshman year."

"Silence!" Gruber's eyes glowed again. "Who are you and how did you find this place?"

John said nothing, and Mukhtar backhanded him across the face. His lip split and started bleeding. John licked it and braced himself for more: he deserved it for that stupid fucking stunt tripping over the rock. At least there was no sign of Rodney, so maybe he'd been able to get away. John hoped like hell that he'd left to get Nasir and Ali and maybe some dynamite to blow this place up before Gruber and his merry men got started with the world domination.

"Well, make your mind up," John drawled, deliberately insolent. "You want silence, or you want answers to questions?" Mukhtar hit him again, knocking him to the floor.

"Leave him," said Gruber, metallic tones piercing John's daze. He managed to look up although his left eye was swelling shut. Gruber had some fancy piece of costume jewelry on his hand, extended out toward John. The central jewel glowed red and pain lanced along John's nerves. He was distantly aware of someone screaming, and that he was convulsing at Gruber's feet. The pain shut off and John collapsed, sobbing, then a shot rang out and Gruber raised his hand, a startled look on his face, as a red wound opened in his neck just below his chin. He toppled slowly backward as more cracks sounded and two of the guards went down. John grabbed a zat from the nearest one and forced his aching frame to roll and shoot, downing another guard. That left four more, but the sniper was still taking them out, and John got behind a pillar and grabbed one of them, slitting his throat with the boot knife.

Mukhtar was bent over Gruber's body and that scrabbly thing with too many legs was hauling itself out of the hole in Gruber's ruined neck, and oh hell, no. John zapped Mukhtar but the thing was already in him by then and he jerked and spasmed but didn't pass out. John fired again and Mukhtar's body stilled. The alien thing had fallen out of his mouth again and was twitching on the stone floor.

"John!" Rodney rounded a pillar and grabbed him, patting him down. "Are you hurt? What did they do to you?" He was clutching his rifle, and Jesus, was Rodney the sniper who'd taken out the guards? John grabbed his arm and pulled him back, then took careful aim and zapped the bug-thing that was still trying to drag itself across the floor toward them. It finally went still and John shot it again, and then again, until it disappeared.

"Ew, was that, um, the thing that got into Gruber?" asked Rodney. "Gross. Are there any more?"

"Not that I saw," said John, "but what about the guards, did we get all of them?"

"Yes, yes, none left standing that I saw," said Rodney. "You're really okay?"

"I'm okay," said John, grinning a little, because holy crap he really was, and so was Rodney, and they'd killed the alien supervillain and maybe saved the world. "Where in hell did you learn to shoot like that, anyway?"

Rodney waved a dismissive hand. "A year in the desert with the Bedouin, you've got to do something. Not camels, though, I draw the line at wrangling animals that spit."

"Rodney," said John, "no one's ever gonna believe this. I mean, aliens, and ray-guns, and bug-things that crawl inside people make their eyes all glowy. They're gonna lock us up and throw away the key, but this is big, right? It's really big."

Rodney pulled him close and ran a hand down the side of his face, stubble and all. "Don't you ever pull a stunt like that again," he said, intense. "I thought I'd lost you." He leaned in and kissed John, cracked lip and dried blood and all. John hadn't been all that well-balanced before the kiss and he was seriously light-headed afterwards. Rodney held him at arms' length. "Yeah, it's really big, and we have to shut it down ourselves. Who knows what those ring things could bring next, and from where. The Army'll think we're insane, and they'd take ages even if we could convince them, and by then there'd be another madman with glowing eyes to contend with. We need some way to blow this place up and put an end to it."

John beamed and patted his belt pouches. "Grenades. Knew they'd come in handy."

"Oh, right, because grenades are well known precision explosives and it's such a good idea to set them off in a confined underground complex while you're still inside yourself!" His voice got a little shrill by the end there.

John winced. "Well, what else can we do? We've got no other explosives and we have to blow this ring thing properly, not just seal off the entrance to the cavern."

"I know, I know, let me think," muttered Rodney, pacing in a circle. One of the guards woke and groaned then, so John zapped him again. Then he systematically fired on all the guards Rodney hadn't already killed, until their bodies vanished. Grim work, but they'd been working for an alien centipede, so fuck them. He slipped a zat in his belt, dragged the remaining bodies around the edges of the ring dais and then took Rodney and led him toward the passageway until they reached the point where the pillars started.

"What are you doing? We can't leave here until I find a way!" protested Rodney, shaking his hand off.

"Don't think there is one, Rodney, so here's what we're gonna do." John took the zat out of his belt and stuck it into Rodney's. "You take this and you high-tail it out and back up to the valley. I want you out of the passageways before I try this, okay?"

"No, it's most definitely not okay! Try what?" Rodney peered at him, jaw lifted stubbornly.

"I'm gonna throw the grenade into those bodies stacked on the ring dais, and then I'm gonna run like hell for the passageway out. With any luck I'll make it okay and there'll only be a limited cave-in, but I don't want you in here as well. You need to be safe outside before I try it."

"Oh that is the _worst_ plan I ever heard, and I'm including every post-doctoral research proposal known to man. No. N. O. Read my lips, Captain, no way!"

"There's no alternative, Rodney, and I'm not doing it with you in here. End of discussion." John stared Rodney down.

It took another half an hour's argument and John getting ever more steely-eyed and implacable before Rodney reluctantly agreed. John's college football history helped, what with his ability to lob airborne objects with some degree of accuracy, a skill Rodney lacked.

He kissed John again, clutching at his jacket and pulling him briefly into a crushing hug before backing away, face stricken, and vanishing between the pillars. John settled down on the hard floor to wait, giving him the time they'd taken walking in, plus another half an hour.

Finally, he rose and stretched, body protesting after the abuse it had taken from being stunned and punched. He limbered up, picked a good spot and made sure he knew exactly where the exit was, then, focusing on channeling his old quarterback reflexes, pulled the pin and lobbed the grenade. It struck one of the corpses and teetered briefly, then rolled into the pile. John wheeled and sprinted for the passage, hurtling past pillars in the last of the light. He'd made Rodney take the candle-lamp but his eyes were dark-adapted now. Just before he reached the heavy stone lintel he heard a crump behind him and the floor trembled. A moment later there was an avalanche of sound and the whole place shook, dust billowing and pillars crashing down in his wake as the roof gave way. He ran, coughing and blinded, one hand on the carved wall to orient himself, as the floor bucked and heaved. His ears rang and for a moment he thought that he'd made it, then a chunk of debris took him down and that was it: game over.

.........

"Oh, hello, you've decided you're back with us again, have you?" A cool, damp cloth dabbed at his face, and John Sheppard groaned and opened his eyes. The room was dim and quiet, apart from Rodney and the soft thudding rhythm of a ceiling fan.

Rodney had returned to the tomb complex after the explosion, of course. He had levered masonry off John's leg and hauled him out from under the rock fall. He'd called back the Bedouin, replaced their fear of the cavern with a greater fear of the wrath of Lieutenant Doctor McKay, and organized them to carry John out into the light. They tied him to a kind of travois, dragging him behind them across the sands to Cairo and the British encampment. Before leaving the cavern, Rodney used a second grenade to seal the entrance.

The days after the tomb collapse were patchy. Pain and heat and dust, jolting movement that made him agonizingly aware of his ribs and pounding head as well as the broken leg, then English voices, a blank stretch which must have been surgery, and drugged stupor. Concussion, fractured ribs, a compound fracture of the left tibia, but really, he'd gotten off lightly.

He grinned up at Rodney, "Hey, McKay."

"Yes, yes, don't try to talk, you're far too drugged for witty repartee."

"We did it, Rodney," John confided in a stage whisper, causing Rodney to shift uneasily on his chair and glance at the door. "Mum's the word," John said owlishly, slurring just a little.

"Yes, very good, mum is indeed the word," said Rodney, patting his hand awkwardly.

"Loose lips sink ships," attempted John, but he only got as far as "looth lipth" before losing it, giggling helplessly as Rodney frowned at him, mouth twisted into an unhappy half-smile.

"Go to sleep, John," Rodney said, stroking the hair back from his forehead. John went to sleep.

.........

Six months later, after Rodney had been transferred back to England, John and his newly healed leg were reassigned to fly air support for convoys in the Mediterranean.

Rodney kept the zat.

Despite the effort Rodney had made to befriend a girl in the USAAF liaison office, the vagaries of war meant that it was two full months after the event before he learned that Captain John Sheppard was MIA, shot down north of Tripoli, his plane never recovered.

He took the train to Bletchley Park and let Alan get him very drunk until he passed out in the bathtub. Rodney's back ached for weeks afterwards.

 

======o0o======

 

John arrived at Rodney's lab panting and on full alert to deal with whatever alien infestation had made Simpson go postal. Really, he needed a tranquilizer gun for days when Ronon and his stunner weren't immediately to hand.

In the lab, he found Miko sobbing in a corner surrounded by a protective cluster of female scientists while Radek berated a truculent-looking McKay. Okaaay. Plan B, then.

"Rodney? Radek? What's going on?"

Rodney's mouth thinned to an even tighter line and he stuck his chin out further.

Radek frowned at him while answering John. "Rodney, he is charging into lab and accusing Miko of being writer of this _zatracený_ story. His evidence however is insufficient and his logic faulty. Yes, she is expert coder and assistant sysadmin, and in past, God alone is knowing why, she possibly had very small crush on him. That is not scientific proof."

"It's a smoking gun," snapped Rodney, scowling.

Renewed sobbing erupted from within the women's support group in the corner, and Simpson turned and glared at the three men, hands on hips. She was holding a heavy-duty wrench. "Out. Now," she said. "All of you."

John knew when to walk away, and he knew when to run. He grabbed Rodney and dragged him off, squawking in protest, with Radek following close behind. By the transporter, he stared Rodney down. "You can't go around making random accusations against co-workers, McKay, especially female co-workers! They'll kill us all in our beds.

Radek nodded fervently. "Indeed, Rodney. Yes, you are desperate to solve this but is necessary to use subtlety, to be delicate. Not to hit problem with mallet like in whack-a-mole game. Plus, you are hitting wrong mole." He pressed the jumper bay touch-pad. "Take a break, become less insane. Please, for me." The door shut and he vanished.

Rodney muttered something about hitting _Radek_ with a mallet, and John hauled him into the transporter, pressed the right button, then dragged him, still muttering angrily, along the hallway. He unlocked the door and pushed Rodney inside.

"Wait, what? This is _your_ room!"

"Yeah, so what? The whole damn expedition thinks we're sleeping together anyway so I don't think it's gonna make a difference. And I need to talk to you."

Rodney's mouth had fallen open on "sleeping together". John found he was staring at Rodney's mouth and snapped himself out of it. _Focus, John, focus._

"Oh, this is too much!" exploded Rodney. "This torrid, deluded piece of trash is ruining my work and destroying my reputation. How can they _write_ this stuff?"

"All your character's done is built a long-range scanner, McKay. Mine's just tripped over his feet and endangered the mission. And hey, thanks for thinking that sleeping with me would ruin your reputation, that's a real big ego-boost."

"That's what I mean by the writer being delusional!" Rodney waved his arms, his cheeks pink. "We both know you have no interest in me at all, not to mention no time to fit me into your busy schedule of space-bimbos, aliens and Pegasus princesses."

"Where do you _get_ this crap about me sleeping with every female that crosses my path? You know it's not true. Jesus. I haven't gotten laid since we got here!"

"Oh do not give me that bullshit! You were stuck in that time dilation cloister for six months and I know for a fact you got very cosy with Teer."

"Yeah, she wanted to, and we kissed some, but that's all. I couldn't go through with it."

"But, but why?" Rodney seemed genuinely perplexed. "You thought you were in there forever and we were never coming to get you. Why would you say no?"

"Jesus, Rodney! I dunno, maybe because I'm gay, okay?"

Rodney's mouth fell open even further this time, and really, there was only one thing to be done about it. John muscled him back against the wall and attacked his mouth fiercely, because he'd had it with the dreams and the fantasies and Rodney being clueless. He'd had it with their alter-egos getting it on in a nest of rugs in the desert, with them touching and kissing and generally being sappy. He wanted all that with Rodney and about then John realised that the kiss had turned tender and that Rodney was moaning into his mouth and sliding fingers through his hair.

John broke it off, panting, and nuzzled Rodney's throat. He couldn't stop touching him, pushing his hands up under Rodney's shirt and across his back, pulling him in tighter. "You want this?" gasped John, sucking kisses into Rodney's neck and fumbling with the fastening on his pants.

"Are you crazy? Of course I fucking want this! John, Jesus, _yes_."

And then they were on the bed, clothes hanging half off of various limbs, and he kept trying to get his mouth on Rodney's cock but Rodney dragged him up to kiss and then pressed him down on the bed, arms trapped up above his head. John arched back and bucked his hips upwards and Rodney took their cocks in his hand and stroked them together, licking John's neck and grazing John's stubble with his teeth. John thrust up into Rodney's hand, giving it up with a choked cry and Rodney buried his face in John's shoulder, shuddering as he came.

 

======o0o======

 

Rodney stamped the caked snow off his boots and left his cold-weather gear hanging in the hallway to thaw. The house was too hot, really, he should readjust the thermostat.

He flicked quickly through the mail then threw it down on the hall table, moving through to the kitchen where Bast was sitting on the counter, flicking her tail impatiently.

"Yes, yes, food coming right up," he told her. Only five months old and already she had him trained.

Five months, could five months already have passed since VJ Day? Five months since he'd arrived back in Toronto to start his post at the University.

He brewed himself some coffee. No point making food; it was Saturday so he'd head on over to Jeannie's in an hour or so for their weekly family dinner. She saw it as her sisterly duty to force him to eat vegetables once a week.

The doorbell chimed and he sighed and dragged himself out of his chair, tipping a disgruntled Bast off his lap. Probably that guy selling brushes again, or some religious fanatic with a tract. He readied his spare change for the brush guy and invective for the evangelist then hauled the door open.

The man on his stoop was thin, shivering in an inadequately padded coat, hands shoved deep in his pockets and the collar turned up, hat pulled down.

"Look," said Rodney, "It's not that I don't want to hear about mindless religious claptrap in sub-zero temperatures, it's just that, oh, hey, I really _don't_ want to hear about it." He went to close the door, but the guy had turned and pulled the scarf down from his face.

"Rodney?"

Rodney took a step back, then another. "John? But you're..."

"Dead? Nope, not quite." John shifted from foot to foot. "Uh, can I come in? My feet are freezing."

Rodney lurched forward again, pawing at John's coat and dragging him into the warmth then stopping, paralysed, before reaching out a hand to touch John's face. John smiled slightly and stood very still, letting Rodney feel his cheeks, touch his chin and nose. When Rodney brushed his lips his eyes shut, and he swallowed. He put a hand up and caught Rodney's fingers gently, stepping forward to pull him into a hug. "Yeah, it's me, it's really me. I'm alive, Buddy."

"But how, what?" Rodney's voice was choked.

"I'll tell you the details later, but the short version is: got shot down, rescued by Italians, POW camp in Italy, escaped and got to Switzerland, eventually sent back to the States, managed to track you down, and here I am. Nothing as interesting as our adventures in Egypt."

Rodney helped him off with his coat and scarf, and John flipped his hat onto the pile of discarded clothing.

"No gloves!" scolded Rodney. "This is Canada, gloves are compulsory!" He touched the shoulders of John's suit, his hands fluttering above the dark serge as he peered into John's face. He was much thinner, with strands of gray now in the hair above his ears. Rodney touched it, then ran a finger around John's oddly-shaped ear.

"Jesus, Rodney." John's voice was hoarse.

His mouth was cold when Rodney kissed him, and he tasted of snow.

"Where are you staying?" Rodney asked, still dazed.

John rubbed the back of his neck. "I dunno. Here?"

Rodney nodded. "Here."

They stood there staring at each other, then Rodney started. "Oh! There's coffee."

"Yeah," said John, amused. "I'm just here for the coffee."

"Well it's very good coffee and there's still rationing," said Rodney, bustling through into the kitchen.

"You had me at the kiss, Blue Eyes," said John.

 

======o0o======

 

"You know, I'm not sure if I'm disappointed or relieved that _Desert Rose_ didn't end with a torrid reunion sex scene," said Rodney, draped over John in post-coital disarray after their own torrid sex scene.

"Relieved, definitely relieved," said John. "The rest of it was bad enough. I'm only just starting to be able to look the marines in the eye again without being afraid they're going to wink at me."

"Yes, marines winking at you is definitely traumatic. I see your point."

"It's been a month now with nothing new posted on the network, so I guess our mystery writer's given up."

"Maybe," said Rodney. He rolled onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at John. "You could probably make sure of that."

John opened an eye. "How? We never did figure out who the hell it was. And all Elizabeth's stern warnings were useless."

"Well, it took me a while, but I finally figured it out," Rodney said nonchalantly. "With my giant brain."

John flipped him and pinned him to the bed, hands imprisoning Rodney's wrists. "Spill, McKay, c'mon, tell me. Who was it? So I can go kill them."

"Mmmm, I don't think so, Colonel. This is nice, though. I like it when you get all fierce and masterful."

"Rodney," said John warningly.

"Oh, all right. Well, it was obvious once it came to me. Who could possibly be manipulating the network untraceably so that even _I_ couldn't identify them? Who has unlimited reading material available demonstrating every style of fiction imaginable? Who has the ability to read all that and also do historical research from the archives the historians brought with them? Who has access to our electronic files and personnel data?" He paused and smirked up at John, batting his eyelashes. "And apart from me, who's your biggest fan?"

"Who?" demanded John.

Rodney grinned. "Atlantis."

 

\- the end -


End file.
